


Console Me (Four Times Paris and Janeway Almost Had Sex and One Time They Did)

by Curator



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M, Fooling Around, Four Times One Time, Games, Kindness, a valid celebration for making it through 2020 is a tropefest of sex, canon-consistent, caring about other people, early seasons to post-Endgame, no adultery by my reckoning but YMMV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:00:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28481310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curator/pseuds/Curator
Summary: They keep trying. Eventually, they’ll succeed.
Relationships: Kathryn Janeway/Tom Paris
Comments: 63
Kudos: 54





	1. Navigational Control

**Author's Note:**

> _Truthfully, I'm not desperate, I haven't changed my mind since we_  
>  _First met,_  
>  _But the last thing that I want to do is to tell you that I'm right for_  
>  _You._  
>  — _Truthfully_ , Lisa Loeb

Navigational Control is tiny, tucked into deck twelve, section B7, between Environmental Control and the Secondary Command Processors.

The consoles are the flat kind, not tilted, which is strange considering the helm is at an 18 degree angle for easier input of commands.

But a person can sit on a flat console, legs dangling, and chat with another officer, say, a pilot, who doesn’t seem to mind when the small room gets warm — Navigational Control is designed to be used by one crewmember at a time, after all — and this person can apologize, inquire if it’s all right if she removes her jacket, and let the side of her mouth lift when he teases, “I thought you’d never ask.”

And her hair feels heavy all coiled on top of her head and she wishes she hadn’t worn her turtleneck over her tank top because, despite her discarded jacket, it’s somehow even warmer in here than it was before.

“Hey,” he taps commands for the last of the upgrades they planned for today, “I think we can test this as soon as the navigational array recalibrates.”

She blinks because although he’s been programming a faster navigational subroutine, they hadn’t talked about work in hours. It’s been holonovels and the academy and planets back home. She almost … she almost forgot.

She wants to forget again. She wants to pretend this is just another starship, a starbase a few hours away, and she’s not the captain. She’s a science officer helping out in Navigational Control. 

She peels off her turtleneck with no conscious thought. 

“I think,” her voice is breathy, “the captain would want us to stay here while we wait for the navigational array to recalibrate.”

His eyes somehow smile first. It’s a devilish glint and she’s proud of her instincts for knowing this man who enjoys fantasy on the holodeck would be game for some fun deep in the bowels of the ship. He’s naturally flirty, like she is, and she’s sure he’s practiced in the art of a good time with no strings attached.

“Recalibration could take at least half an hour.” He steps toward her, lets her legs wrap around his hips. “The captain would have to understand if we wanted to stay here and monitor readings until then.”

“He would have to,” she murmurs, fingertips tracing the invisible stubble of his jawline, the curve of his ears. “Those readings are critical to ship’s—”

And his lips are cool on her neck and she can’t talk, can’t think through the sweet, soft pressure of slow kisses, his little sighs of pleasure, his hands on her back, her shoulders, her … forehead?

He pulls away.

She squints at him.

It’s like he’s off in the distance, even in the tiny room.

“Computer,” he speaks into the air, “analyze vital signs for Captain Kathryn Janeway. Report any unusual findings.”

“Captain Kathryn Janeway has a fever of 39 degrees Celsius. Suspected cause: Levodian flu.”

The heel of her hand presses to her damp forehead, he gathers her clothing, and she leans against him to walk to sickbay.


	2. Jefferies Tube

“You don’t have to do this, Tom.” 

Pain bites at her hands and knees as she crawls. Whoever designed the Jefferies tube system was a sadist.

“It’s all right, Captain. Wouldn’t want to send you all the way to the thruster relays without an extra set of eyes on the problem.”

The real problem is she recovered from the Levodian flu almost a year ago, but wonders if her embarrassment will ever fade.

She practically _threw_ herself at him, didn’t she?

And he’s a gentleman. Never brought it up. Never even made a joke, unlike her moronic comment after the warp 10 incident about the female initiating sex.

Damn, she’s glad she can’t remember details of whatever they did on that planet. She knows it was more than once because it was sunny one time and rainy another and nighttime at least twice. Why the hell can she recall the weather and not much else? Why when she tries to fall asleep does she think of—

“Captain.” He’s unfastening a panel. “Thruster relays.”

She crawls backward to rejoin him. “My apologies, Mr. Paris. I was distracted.”

“By what?” He’s still working loose the panel and can’t see her face flushing. 

“Ship’s business.”

She sits cross-legged in front of the thruster relays. He has the toolkit and hands her what she needs before she has to ask. The repair takes only a few minutes, then he’s packing up the tools again.

“That’s what we call an open and shut case.” He snaps closed the lid of the toolkit.

“Feels good to be ahead of schedule for a change.” She flexes her wrists, not looking forward to crawling back through the tubes.

“You know,” he begins to refasten the panel, “the captain probably doesn’t expect us for at least another twenty minutes.”

Holy shit. 

He’s playing the game from Navigational Control.

She could pretend to be confused. Her fever was high enough that it would be medically plausible for her not to remember.

But there’s what she actually doesn’t remember and what she does … and the way her chest is tingling.

“Computer,” she watches Tom finish refastening the panel, “seal Jefferies tube doors on either side of this section.”

The doors slide shut. 

“Doors sealed.”

“Hey,” Tom’s low voice echoes, “what do you think the captain would do if we got caught?”

“Oh, we’d be in a lot of trouble.” She crawls closer to him, nudging the toolkit to the side. “Probably a long, boring lecture in the ready room about proper officer behavior.”

Her hand flattens on his chest, pushing him onto his back. Then her thighs are tight around his waist and she kisses _his_ neck this time, long muscles flexing soft skin under her lips, _blossoming_ under her lips like something delicious and good. He winces as his shoulder blades shift and slide, but she presumes he knows that fooling around in the tubes is just as painful for the person whose knees scrape along the metal floor.

He must not mind too much. His grasp is firm on her ass. 

She rocks with him, hips in motion, his erection straining through their clothes.

His head twists and his teeth tug at her bottom lip and she gasps at how good he is at this, how smoothly he takes control when he wants to.

There are soft, needy sounds and she didn’t expect to want this so badly and her legs shake as his hand inches between their stomachs, working its way into her trousers. Her knees are killing her but she’ll deal with that later. Right now, she wants him to— she needs him to—

He whispers, “I’ve wanted this for a long time.”

And his fingers are so close and she thinks they’re still playing the game and her breaths are ragged when she says, “I don’t care what reprimand Captain Paris gives us for this, it’s worth it,” and his hand stops and she doesn’t understand why and then she sees the look on his face.

“Did you— did you just mention my dad?”

She could remind him that his dad was her first commanding officer, so she associates Owen Paris with captaincy.

She could explain that she thinks of the two Paris men very, very differently.

She could lie and say he misheard her.

Instead, she follows him back through the tubes, her carrying the toolkit this time, and neither of them says a word when Tuvok compliments them on their efficiency.


	3. Briefing Room

She doesn’t regret taking Tom and B’Elanna to task for their immature behavior. Yes, they were under the influence of alien experimentation, but at least one of them should have reported their unusual symptoms to the Doctor. He might have discovered the problem sooner, been able to protect more of the crew.

Her breastbone burns, though, at the idea that the little game she and Tom tried to play — twice — came true with her on the wrong side of the fantasy.

At senior staff meetings, she watches the new couple.

She thought she just wanted to have a good time with Tom. He’s fun, charming yet straightforward, and their minds work so similarly that it’s downright eerie at times.

She can’t have any kind of serious relationship out here, and, besides, Mark is a good person and not one to lose hope easily.

So it’s ridiculous to keep thinking about Tom.

It’s ridiculous to notice when Tom and B’Elanna clearly have had a fight because the two of them don’t look at each other and Harry pretends to input information on a padd when he’s actually casting worried glances back and forth.

It’s ridiculous to dismiss everyone and call out, “Mr. Paris, a word?” and wait until the briefing room door slides shut and he’s the only other person in the room and say, “Is something bothering you, Tom?”

He’s out of his chair and pacing, one hand raking his hair, the other gesturing. “It’s normal to be interested in a person, right? To want to know more about her culture? To try to get her to like herself just a little bit more?”

She actually thinks Tom is overbearing on this point, pressuring B’Elanna to embrace a heritage that Tom can’t possibly understand the way B’Elanna does.

But she’s been called too pushy by enough people to know that won’t work here, so what she says is, “It’s normal for relationships to have bumps in the road.”

“Bumps in the road,” he scoffs. “Try being yelled at and told you’re wrong every time you try to do something nice.”

His palm goes to the bulkhead and he seems to stare through the viewport at the star-streaks.

“I just want to be a good person,” he murmurs, and she would think he was talking to himself if he didn’t turn toward her. “You know?”

She knows.

Whether it’s his accident or her choices out here or something else, she knows what it’s like to want to be a good person and wonder if she is … was … will be.

Instinct sends her to stand next to him in front of the viewport. 

Instinct sends her hand to his forearm. “You’re a good person, Tom.”

And it must be instinct that sends his lips to hers, soft, gentle, and she’s soaring in a kiss that’s begging to be understood and she understands, and his tongue tastes like coffee with cream and little breaths puff from his nose and this is all so damn _comfortable_ and _natural_ even though it’s been so long since they did anything like this. Then his thumbs brush her cheekbones and she shivers because he’s never done that before, he’s never touched her like this was something with feelings.

This can’t be something with feelings.

She needs to tell him, to remind him of what they both know, to explain that while she likes him … likes him a lot … she can’t have a romantic relationship with anyone in her chain of command.

But she’s unfastening his trousers, instead.

Slipping a hand into his Starfleet boxers, instead.

Dropping to her knees, instead.

She’s thought about this so many times and—

The comm crackles. “Torres to Paris.”

Her hand recoils like she touched fire and she jumps backward to her feet. He stumbles back, too, tucks himself in, fixes his uniform. 

“Torres to Paris, do you read me?”

“Answer it,” she says, and flinches to hear her own command voice.

“Paris here.”

“Tom, I— I’m sorry.” B’Elanna’s voice wobbles. “I shouldn’t have yelled and I shouldn’t have said those things. I shouldn’t— I shouldn’t have broken up with you.”

He casts an anguished look her way, all knitted eyebrows and parted lips still puffy and shiny from being pressed to hers. 

But there’s something … something about being a good person … about letting him have love out here, not whatever blunted substitute she would have to offer. 

She forces herself to mouth, “Listen to her.”

His hand rakes his hair again. 

“Tom, can you … can you forgive me?” 

B’Elanna’s question hangs in the air. 

His arms cross, not in anger — in protection, in the most basic way of keeping himself safe.

She scrunches her eyes shut. He’s going to do the right thing for all of them, she knows he is, because, as she told him, he’s a good person. 

“Yeah, B’Elanna,” he says. “I forgive you.”

“Thank you, Tom!”

And she swallows the knot in her throat and starts to step away to give the couple some privacy, but the door opens before she’s in sensor range and Harry walks in. 

“Left my padd on my chair,” he says sheepishly, and it occurs to her that she forgot to seal the doors. 


	4. Quarters

“Was I a jerk the other day?”

He stands in the doorway, light from the corridor catching the lone pip on his collar. 

“I’m not sure I know what you mean, Mr. Paris.”

She steps aside, lets him walk into the darkened living area. 

It’s 0100. She had been reading reports and they’re both still in uniform, him without his jacket, but the ship has that sleepy feel of night shift, the hum of the warp core like a lullaby. 

He drops onto the sofa, elbows on his knees, head cradled in his hands. 

“I don’t mean to be an ass. I’m sorry.”

He’s not talking about Monea. She’s sure of that. They both know he crossed a professional line there, but not a personal one. Personally, she wanted him to succeed in his attempt to protect that ocean. 

Professionally, she was ready to shoot down his shuttle.

Which is exactly why she can’t be more than friends with anyone on this ship — and, therefore, she’s been happy for him and B’Elanna.

Okay, not really. 

But she’s pasted on a smile and done her best to seem pleased when the couple is together and sorry when fights break them apart again. 

“It’s just that,” he looks up, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

She sits next to him, not too close. “What are you talking about Tom?”

“Shannon O’Donnel.” The name rolls off his tongue like a funeral dirge. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said something in front of everyone. Maybe I should have told you privately that she wasn’t listed as working on the Mars projects.”

Her chest grows heavy at the memory, but her head shakes. She would rather be corrected than coddled. “No, Tom. You were being honest. You’re not a jerk. You’re a—”

“Don’t call me a good person.”

“Why not?” She tries to keep her tone light, to pretend he’s not referencing what could have led to a disastrous discovery by Ensign Kim. 

But Tom doesn’t answer her question. 

He asks one. 

With imploring eyes. 

With his teeth scraping his bottom lip. 

With a hand on her knee. 

“Tom?”

And he’s scooting nearer and she should stop him but he reads her mind and says, “I’ve been dumped and informed in no uncertain terms that I’m an inconsiderate, inattentive, worthless excuse for a man. I don’t want to play games. I don’t want to pretend that I’m a good person. I just want to—”

She doesn’t intend to kiss him. 

But he tastes like toothpaste this time and she’s sure that he tried to sleep and couldn’t, that he tossed and turned and finally put on his uniform and asked the computer if she was awake. 

Because she’s done all of that except she never went to his quarters in the middle of the night.

Never swung over a hip to straddle him, her uniform jacket already discarded, his hands hitching up her turtleneck to unclasp her bra. 

Never pulled off his t-shirt and hissed with pleasure at being skin-to-skin, the soft hair on his chest tickling her breasts.

Never caressed his jaw and been surprised at the set of it — determined — and noticed that he’s moving in all the right ways, is erect through their trousers, but quiet, so quiet, like he’s concentrating on something.

She pulls away, and her hand rises, like his did so many years ago, to his forehead.

He blinks at her. “What?”

“You’re sick,” she whispers, her thumb smoothing his furrowed brow. “Lovesick. You’re trying to prove you’re over someone when you’re not.”

His head shakes. “That’s finished. B’Elanna said so herself.”

_Voyager_ is a small ship, and she knows he doesn’t have a lot of choices — but he has more choices than she does. He has the choice to try. 

“Look, Tom, if you want love, I can’t give you that right now. But I can tell you that being lonely out here isn’t easy. If you want to be with her, if you love her, then you owe it to yourself to see if she’s willing to try again.”

He softens under her. Not just his penis — his whole body loosens, all the tension falling away. 

“It’s that simple? Ask her to try again because I love her?”

And she nods because if she speaks she might cry. 


	5. Office, Starfleet Command

“Welcome to headquarters, Tom.”

He looks up from a console, three pips shining from his collar, and his face splits into a grin. “Kathryn!”

“I’m sorry I was in space when you moved all this in.” She steps from his office door to where he’s working in the center of a large room stocked with rows and rows of consoles — helm consoles, security consoles, engineering consoles, command consoles. “But better you than me to work for Admiral Nechayev.”

His laugh is of energetic fatigue — a state of mind she knows well. 

“Today is actually the first day everything is powered up and ready to go. Holo-tactical interface.” He gives an affectionate pat to a console’s flat surface. “It’s going to be incredible, trust me.” 

“I do. I consider myself fortunate that you’re leading the team from here. It will be nice to have someone else from _Voyager_ stationed on Earth.”

She doesn’t mention his divorce. Most of _Voyager’s_ former crew knows about fights that only intensified once Miral was born, about B’Elanna constantly pushing Tom away then accusing him of wanting to leave her … until, almost a year ago, he did, his love finally broken by her lack of trust. 

She doesn’t particularly want to talk about her divorce, either. She was in such a damn hurry when the ship got home that she jumped into something she shouldn’t have. It’s been nearly six months since she pulled off her wedding ring for the last time, and that’s for the best. 

“I want to show you something.” Tom’s fingers lace with hers and it’s natural, as if they’ve walked holding hands a hundred times instead of this being the first. 

Maybe it’s because of the comm calls? They chatted a few times in the weeks he was preparing to transfer to San Francisco. Short conversations, things like getting a spot in a good preschool for Miral and Starfleet approving his housing request. Sure, there were butterflies in her stomach every time, like there are now, but comm calls before a big transfer are normal, not a sign of something more. And, sure, he flirted with her and she flirted right back, but that’s who Tom is when he’s happy and it’s nice to see him happy again.

“What do you think of this?” He stops in front of a navigational console. 

Her nose crinkles. “Antiquated. The technology looks at least a decade old. Shouldn’t Starfleet have given you the latest and greatest?”

“This may not be the latest, but it is the greatest.” He squeezes her hand. “This console is from _Voyager’s_ Navigational Control room. I went through the Starfleet database and found this old gal in a storage facility on Argelius II.”

Heat creeps up her cheeks — a memory-echo of her fever … and her embarrassment. 

“Tom, I—”

He leans down to whisper, hot breath swirling in her ear. “I wanted to ask in person, not over the comm. Are you seeing anyone?”

The butterflies in her stomach flutter lower.

“No.”

“Can I kiss you?”

She should defer this conversation to a more appropriate time and place. She only stopped by his office to say hello, maybe ask him out to dinner.

But she deferred what she wanted for a long, long time. 

And it’s not really a conversation anymore.

It’s him tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. 

It’s him tilting her chin. 

It’s her rising on her tiptoes and her lips finding his and it’s good, so good, to open under him again, to taste his coffee and cream, to let her thumbs brush _his_ cheekbones this time because feelings are allowed now and this … this feels a lot like love, like soaring together in strong arms and gentle sighs.

He fumbles for her admiral’s belt.

“Tom.” She stills his hands. 

“Please.” His forehead presses to hers. “We’ve tried so many times. I don’t want to stop now.”

Her eyes drift closed. How did she never notice that he smells like Starfleet soap — clean and fresh?

She unfastens her belt. It clinks onto the carpet.

“Say it.” He pulls off her uniform jacket, her turtleneck. 

Cool air hits her skin and she shivers as she helps him out of his own uniform. “Say what?”

“Say, ‘I want to be with you, Tom.’ Say, ‘I think we’re going to be a good couple, Tom.’ And do that little smile you do when you’re feeling sexy.”

The side of her mouth lifts.

“Like that.” He grins. “Yes.”

Oh, he’s sassy. 

Perfect. 

“I want to be with you, Tom.” His hand is warm on her back, unhooking her bra and lifting it away. “I think we’re going to be a good couple, Tom — if you don’t make a habit of telling me what to do.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

And his head lowers and she cries out as his tongue swirls one hardened nipple, then the other. She’s helpless, damp between already-trembling legs, then the carpet is soft on her back and he’s touching her, fingers curling inside as she gasps.

Thank goodness they never got this far on the ship. She wouldn’t have been able to give him up. 

Her hips jerk and she’s tight, so tight, and she tries to focus on what he’s saying — telling her how beautiful she is, how much he’s wanted this, how he can’t wait to make her happy in every way — and of course he’s a talker, and that’s fine, she likes it, but she can’t catch her breath and she’s so close. 

So close.

So close.

She needs more. 

Now. 

She reaches for his erection, guides him. She hisses with displeasure as his fingers retreat, but then he pushes into her and he’s forceful, thrusting hard, not holding back, and his little grunts are sweet and she’s going to— 

Oh God, yes, she’s going to—

Her cry is from deep inside as the orgasm rips through her, heart pounding, legs shaking.

His rhythm doesn’t stop, but there’s a chuckle above her. “Are you always this easy?”

Maybe him being sassy isn’t always perfect. 

“No.” A lazy smile spreads across her face. “You’ll have to work harder in the future.”

“Sounds like fun.” His stomach is hot on hers and his teeth nip her earlobe. “I like a challenge.”

He arcs over her, her still-quivering hands exploring his chest, his back, the delightful curves of his rear end. It doesn’t take him long, either, and when he stiffens and cries out, a gentle, second orgasm ripples through her stomach.

His head lands on her chest.

The weight feels good. 

He gulps for air and she strokes the back of his slightly sweaty head. “You were worth waiting for.”

“So were you.”

They breathe, loose-limbed and lazy, and she’s just formulating a hazy question — what he wants to call their relationship because boyfriend and girlfriend doesn’t seem like enough and maybe he knows of something better or they can consult the linguistics database — when they both jolt to the sound of his office door sliding open.

“Commander Paris, I know our meeting isn’t for a few hours but I was wondering if you could advise me on— What the hell?”

Admiral Alynna Nechayev stands at the far end of a row of consoles, padd in hand, mouth agape, eyes wide with something between horror and disgust.

“Admiral!” Two sets of hands grasp for jackets that are just out of reach. 

“Admiral Janeway and Commander Paris, you both should be ashamed of yourselves,” Admiral Nechayev snaps. “Be in my office in five minutes. Fully dressed. There will be repercussions for this unacceptable conduct.”

The door slides closed behind the admiral. 

He leaps up, cursing and grabbing pieces of their uniforms. 

But she can’t help the laugh that bubbles from her stomach. 

“You think this is funny?” He stares at her.

“I think I need to be careful what I fantasize about because everything I want with you comes true — only better, because it’s Admiral Nechayev and not your father who’s going to lecture us and probably add a well-deserved formal reprimand to our files.”

And he chortles, too, and he crouches in front of her and his lips smile as he presses them to hers and he says, “Please, never mention my dad again when you and I are naked,” and she agrees because all those years ago she said that whatever reprimand they got would be worth it — and it is.


End file.
